


The Staircase in the Little Bookshop

by elfin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: ‘Can I put one of those spiral staircases in here? You know, the ones with the black wrought iron railings and polished wooden steps with nothing between them?’





	The Staircase in the Little Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this weeks ago, before I saw an artist's impression of Aziraphale's bookshop. Seeing that on tumblr reminded me about this fic, so I finished it. Sort of. It's more of a ramble than a fic.

Some years ago, one quiet summer’s evening, Crowley stood in the back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop and asked him, ‘Can I put one of those spiral staircases in here? You know, the ones with the black wrought iron railings and polished wooden steps with nothing between them?’

To which Aziraphale had replied, ‘No, certainly not.’

‘Oh, come on. Please? It would suit the style and flow of the room.’

Not that it was in his innate nature to be suspicious, but the angel had known Crowley far too long. He stopped doing what ever it was he was doing with the feathery pen and the book with the gold edging and narrowed his gaze directly at him. ’Why do you want one?’

‘I want somewhere to sit!’

‘Use a chair.’

‘That’s dull. Don’t you think a beautiful black iron staircase would just set the room off. A narrow one, of course, with stunning railings reminiscent of Adams and Nesfield.’ 

Aziraphale at least showed signs of relenting, until he looked up at the ceiling and asked, ‘Leading to where?’

Crowley, who hadn’t through that far ahead, sighed, pouted, and waved one hand in the general direction of, ‘Up.’

‘You can’t just have a staircase leading to up. There has to be somewhere to go once you get up there.’

‘Well, what’s up there?’

‘I don’t know. The attic, presumably.’

‘That’s it then! It can lead to an attic room!’

Aziraphale gave in with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. ‘Fine. Put in your staircase. But it’ll just end up collecting dust, mark my words.’

Crowley didn’t care. With a complex movement of his hands, and thus of matter, he constructed the perfect staircase, just where he wanted it, and at the top, a doorway.

~

A couple of decades later, the staircase is still there, gathering dust and books, leading to an attic room measuring a metre squared because neither of them thought to check how much space there actually was up there. It too has gathered dust, and as many books as will fit into a room the size of a wardrobe. 

Crowley loves it. He still thinks it was one of his better ideas. On this particular post-failed-armageddon afternoon, he’s sitting half the way up, directly over Aziraphale’s desk, eating crisps. 

’Stop it!’ 

He tries to hide the grin as he watches the angel sweep a few hard crumbs from the cover of a newly recreated book. ‘This is a first edition, over a decade old. You don’t have to immediately cover it all in cheese… whatsits.’

‘They’re not Wotsits. They’re Dorritos. And it can't be a first edition when it was nothing but ashes a week ago.’

Aziraphale pointedly ignores him while carefully removing a shard of fried potato from the spine of an open book that’s perched on the edge of the desk. 

‘Why are you still here, anyway? It’s over. The world is still turning. We’re still here.’ He stills for a moment and Crowley hears him take a deep yet unnecessary breath. ‘And while we may not be in our respective superiors’ good books, they’re still too busy pretending that what transpired is exactly what they had planned all along.’ Aziraphale looks up at the demon perched halfway up the spiral staircase. ‘You’ve been here all week. Don’t you have a home to go to?’

‘Yes.’ Crowley pauses. ‘I think. I didn’t burn mine down by accidentally stepping on a sigil.’

‘It wasn’t the sigil. It was the candle. And it was that… damned witch finder’s fault. Nothing but trouble, those people.’

‘You’re the one who’s been encouraging them all these years.’

‘Oh, don’t you play the innocent with me, snake. I know you were paying the cheeky sod just as much as I was.’

‘It was sixty quid a year. It wasn’t breaking anyone’s bank. We have - had - politicians on the books getting a lot more zeroes.’

’Had?’

‘I honestly don’t know what the situation is now. Part of me wants to find out, wants things to go back to the way they were.’

He watches Aziraphale stop fussing over his books and move to the bottom of the stairs. ’But…?’ He sounds curious.

‘But… I think a wiser decision is to stay under the radar for a while and let the dust, and everything else, settle.’

He knows what’s coming next just from the thoughtful expression on the angel’s face. Over the millennia he’s seen it countless times.

‘Are you… scared?’

‘Scared? No.’ He shakes his head once, decisively, before raising his voice. ‘I’m fucking terrified, Zira!’

Aziraphale predictably starts up the stairs, slowly, one step at a time. Crowley expects at least a comment on the rare shortening of his name, but he seems to ignore it, sits himself on the next step down without a word and instead just looks at him with those all-knowing, blue eyes. 

‘If they were going to punish you, they’d have done so already. They’re not so busy that they’d overlook a scapegoat if they thought there was one to be hung out to dry.’

‘That is the least of what they’d do to me.’

The angel puts a hand on his knee, and Crowley stares at it.

‘Adam said not to worry. And I took him at his word.’

‘He is literally the anti-christ, Satan’s son, what makes you think he’s remotely trustworthy?’

‘Because he’s also human. He was raised by decent parents and has friends who will keep him honest.’

Crowley snorts. ‘Until university.’

Aziraphale just smiles thoughtfully. ’He’ll probably have one built near Tadfield. Maybe on land where the old airbase once was.’

Crowley laughs. Well, more of a bark but the joke surprises him. Although… maybe not a joke. He’s still staring at the pale hand on his knee and it strikes him that perhaps he should do something with it. Putting the crisp packet to one side, he bends over and touches his lips to the back of it. He half expects the angel to snatch it back, but he doesn’t. Instead, when Crowley sits up, he finds himself caught in a bright, inquisitive gaze.

‘Why did you do that?’

Crowley opens his mouth, but the only thing he can think to say was ‘I wanted to see what you tasted like’ and coming from him, it wouldn’t sound good. He hesitates, and in that moment Aziraphale closes the small gap between them and kisses him. 

Kiss might be an exaggeration. It’s more a touch of lips against his. Soft, tender lips. Crowley feels something inside him start to melt. 

‘I’m supposed to do the tempting,’ he murmurs when the angel sits back a little. 

‘I’m not tempting. I’m offering. I believe I’m allowed to offer. Besides, I do like you. Very much.’

‘Ha! I knew it!’ But there’s no real triumph in his words. They’ve both known it, for a long, long time. He asks curiously, ’So… what else… might be on offer?’

 

In the back room of A.Z. Fell’s book shop, there’s a spiral staircase with black wrought iron railings and polished wooden steps with nothing between them. Some nights, Crowley wishes he’d gone for carpet instead.


End file.
